later
by cardiogod
Summary: It takes her approximately six seconds to determine that kissing Helena in an underground Regent vault surrounded by skeletons, a freshly dead body, a killer game of chess, and a bunch of other creepy stuff while their friends are at the Warehouse trying to stop a mad man from wreaking unfathomable destruction is probably a bad idea. - set during "Stand."


It takes her approximately six seconds to determine that kissing Helena in an underground Regent vault surrounded by skeletons, a freshly dead body, a killer game of chess, and a bunch of other creepy stuff while their friends are at the Warehouse trying to stop a mad man from wreaking unfathomable destruction is probably a bad idea.

It takes her approximately seven seconds to decide that she doesn't really care.

She isn't among the dead bodies on the floor and she figures that is probably cause for celebration, and what better way to celebrate than to make out with a 156 year old female science-fiction author turned bronze-statue turned Warehouse agent turned world-destroying bad-guy turned hologram turned chess-wizardy good-guy?

It makes sense, as much as anything in the Warehouse makes sense. Which is to say, it doesn't really make sense at all, but one would be a fool to second-guess it.

They have been kissing for forty-seven seconds when Myka thinks that she really shouldn't be thinking (because she is always, always thinking, and wouldn't it be nice to feel instead?) and so she stops thinking and pulls Helena backwards until the wall is up against her back and Helena is up against her front.

This probably shouldn't feel as good as it does, given the circumstances, but Helena's hands are everywhere and her mouth is everywhere and she is doing all of these things that make Myka's head spin and it's possible that nothing has ever felt better. She might feel a little bit guilty if she had the room in her brain, but it is currently too occupied with other things (like Helena's leg creeping between hers and the urge to lean into it, just a little) to concern itself with guilt.

She feels Helena grin against her mouth and Myka pulls back a little so that she can see her face. She is smirking, an eyebrow arched.

"Wells and Bering."

It's a challenge and if there is one thing that Myka doesn't do, it's back down from a challenge.

Before Helena can bring their mouths back together, Myka pushes off the wall and pushes Helena into it. Her body follows, colliding with hips and lips and breasts, with danger and excitement and arousal, and she takes control.

"Bering and Wells."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thinks that she should probably be nervous since she's never even kissed a woman before, let alone _this_, whatever _this _may be, but there will be plenty of time for nervousness later (next time, when it's slow and passionate and tender and not this frantic, frenzied thing borne of adrenaline, relief, and fear) and Helena can be good enough at this for the both of them. And she is good at this. Very, very good.

Helena flips them back to their original positions and Myka thinks that maybe she can learn to live with "Wells and Bering" if it is always like this.

Myka leans into the hands on her breasts, giving in to her own selfish want to possess and be possessed by the woman in front of her, and she thinks that maybe it was always coming to this, right from the very start.

It's not that she believes in destiny or anything – she is far too rational for that – but this doesn't feel like a first time, distinctly lacking all of the awkward bumbling of newness. It feels like they've been doing this since the day they met, pushing and shoving, giving and taking, back and forth.

She fumbles with the button of her own jeans and yanks at her zipper, needy and impatient. She pulls one of Helena's hands from her breasts, and Helena takes the hint and trails down Myka's body, fingers fighting the unyielding denim at her waist to get to where she is wanted.

"Myka." It is barely a breath, but it's there, accompanied by fingers and movement and warmth and _oh_, is this good.

Helena looks like she wants to say something, but Myka shakes her head and brings their foreheads together as hips move in tandem with hands and the pressure builds.

(The truth is, she knows that if Helena says something, she'll have to say something in return, and she doesn't really know what she'll say because she doesn't really know what this is or what it was or what it will be. She just knows that Helena is here and alive and not evil and not a hologram and not a school teacher and that she wants her, they want each other, and she's not sure that there needs to be any more than that just now. There will be time for words later; now, actions are enough.)

They lock eyes and Myka can see all of the apologies that are itching to escape, apologies for things done, things almost done, things left undone, and she knows that nothing she can say will be enough; Helena will spend the rest of her life seeking an absolution that she'll never allow herself.

So she kisses her, her unoccupied hand coming to rest in Helena's hair, pulling her closer and closer still until there isn't a breath of air between them. If she can't accept forgiveness, maybe she can accept love (because that is what _this_ is and Myka knows it, even if she can't quite voice it yet).

Helena's fingers are deft and confident and they move swiftly against her. It won't be long now.

The pressure and the motion are constant, back and forth, up and down, coaxing from her sparks to incite an explosion. It is exquisite and it is torturous.

When it overtakes her, the explosion is hot and bright and her knees buckle just enough that Helena's arm goes around her waist to steady her as she catches her breath. Helena smiles and she's not sure if she's ever seen her quite so relaxed, so free.

She is beautiful.

Myka reaches for her, to kiss her, to love her, to pull her close, but she is denied. Helena steps away, shakes her head, and straightens out her clothing before heading towards the chess table.

Myka still feels the haze of orgasm pressing in on her, slowing her movements, dulling her senses, leaving her a bit dumbfounded at the sudden change in tone.

"But what about you?"

"I'm afraid we haven't the time, darling. Later."

Sykes. The Warehouse. The imminent danger that they are always running towards.

Myka accepts her answer but can't help feeling that Helena is denying herself something she doesn't think she deserves.

Helena is already back to work, fiddling with chess pieces, looking for another way to trigger the portal. Myka joins her. Bering and Wells, solving puzzles and saving the day.

They'll figure the rest out later.

After the dust settles, she wonders if things could have been different, if they would have found a solution that would have saved all of them had they had just a little more time. She wonders if she traded one moment (a blindingly glorious moment) for a lifetime of moments.

But there's no use wondering; what's done is done.

She fights back tears and tries not to think about it.

They didn't have enough time.

That was the crux of it all.

They never had enough time.


End file.
